There was somewhat of truth in this taunt, which the devilish cunning of the other had formulated so as to make it more cutting than the keenest-edged weapon. Seeing from the tenor of it that all further parley would be useless, Yamagawa without another word or look made his way back to his master’s room. As he entered, Sennoske started in amazement and affright at the change which half an hour had effected in the appearance of his old servant. The signs of acute physical pain, as well as of mental anguish, were graven in deep lines on his features, and spoke with equal emphasis out of his hollow, sunken eyes; shuffling along as he did on his right side, with his right hand convulsively clasping his left bosom, it is probable that the terrible ordeal through which he had passed, had brought on a partial heart-stroke. Yet overlying all these manifestations of suffering, which became almost tangible and somatic as it were by comparison, there was a look of utter, hopeless despair,—such a look as is seen in certain types of incurable madness; such a look as hunters see in some animals hunted down to the last stages of exhaustion, with the dogs fastening on them, and no hope of escape.
In a sufficiently coherent way to make himself understood, Yamagawa explained the circumstances attending the loss of the sword, without, however, hinting at the identity of the samurai whom he had recognized among his despoilers. Sennoske, although greatly annoyed and angry at the impudence of the demand transmitted to him, showed no outward signs of perturbation, and in reality a sincere pity for the poor old man before him mastered every other emotion. From the version given to him, he could of course scarcely understand why this accident, although implying a serious neglect of duty on the part of Yamagawa according to the code then prevailing, should yet have affected the old servitor in such a terrible way; and in spite of the latter’s urgent solicitation to go at once about the recovery of his weapon, he stayed to console and cheer him.
ROADSIDE HOTEL.
“Sorrow is bad for old age,” he said; “it withers up the tree of life quicker and surer than the cold north winds wither the blooming chrysanthemum. Cheer up, and do not let me see you so downcast at this trumpery business, especially now that we are nearing home. As soon as I have regained my sword, I shall feel like teaching these gentry a lesson at which you may have to assist me; so—”
“Yes, as soon as you have regained possession of your sword,” said the other, interrupting him. “Oh, pray, my dear master, go at once! this suspense is horrible.”
Sennoske at these words started up, filled with dark forebodings. He felt that there must be something more in this affair than he yet apprehended, and he hesitated no longer. Calling a servant, he had himself conducted to the room which Yamagawa had mistakenly entered; and announcing his name, made a fair apology for what had occurred, and courteously but firmly asked for the return of his sword. Taka Suke, who had sent him the message to come, and who was evidently the leader of the party, replied to him in what was plainly a prepared speech:—
“I have heard of you, Sennoske, and of the renown which you have gained on the field of battle; but it seems to me that, in spite of this, you are greatly deficient in the duties and obligations of a samurai. Courage and bravery and prowess in battle are common enough in our country; but a sword like this of yours is rarely found, and its possession probably more than any quality of your own has helped you to achieve success and renown. You know the old saying, ‘The sword is the soul of the samurai.’ It owes its origin to a feeling hallowed by the custom of centuries,—a feeling which has been outraged by the careless, negligent way in which this treasure has been handled. Your youth and inexperience may plead in extenuation of yourself, but the fault of your retainer, who is a samurai, and old enough to know his duty, cannot be condoned; and we will listen to no demand for the restoration of this blade unless it is accompanied by the head of that drunken brute through whose culpable carelessness it might easily have been lost or spoiled.”
“But this is preposterous,” Sennoske rejoined; “this is horrible! You surely cannot mean what you say—and yet the life of a faithful old retainer is not a fit subject for sport. I recollect him from the day when consciousness first dawned upon me; memory recalls him as watching over my childhood, guiding and instructing my early youth, in the most disinterested, self-sacrificing way. I would willingly risk my life for him at any moment; and sword was never yet forged, nor ever will be, which could weigh equally in the balance with such faithfulness and such devotion as he has always shown. I respect your feelings; but this man has suffered more than enough already for his one fault. I again beg you to return me the sword which belongs to me, and to which no one but myself can lay any claim.”